There’s an old ghost who roams around the fifth floor of the library sometimes, weaving in and out of the stacks, picking up a book here and there and skimming through it, hoping for something wonderful he hasn’t read before. The library used to have motion sensors in each aisle, so when someone would walk past they would sense their movement and switch the lights on, illuminating the darkened leather-backed books for a few moments. That’s how I found out about the ghost; I was standing in an aisle, scanning the titles, when suddenly the light in the next row turned on. I peeked into the hallway and watched the overhead bulbs turn on, one by one, all the way down the floor, but I couldn’t see what triggered them. Soon after that, the library replaced the sensors with timing systems you had to set yourself. They must have thought the sensors weren’t working right or something. Being in the library when the old ghost was there, it seemed like the sensors would suddenly detect themselves and turn on. It was as if they scared of themselves. When I finally met the old ghost, he was sitting on the floor in a row, his milky back pressed up against a stack, reading The Little Prince in French and giggling like a kid. I guess he could turn invisible whenever he wanted, and maybe he got careless and forgot that time. If I were a ghost, I would never want to be invisible; I think I would miss everybody too much, being so close with them not even knowing you’re there. So when I saw him, I introduced myself, thinking he might be lonely. He put out a frosty hand for me to shake. When I touched it, it felt cold and difficult to hold on to, like trying to squeeze one of those rubbery gelatin desserts mom used to make for us. For some reason, holding his hand made me feel kind of sad. The old ghost didn’t speak, but he opened his mouth and smiled. You could see right through it to the books on the other side. The library found out about him somehow and one day confronted him about staying after closing time and not having a membership. I guess they got suspicious of me coming in every day to visit someone they couldn’t see. But they could see him fine that day. Just because you’re a ghost doesn’t mean you get special privileges, they said. I was listening in the corner from behind a leather mountain of books that piled high, towering over my head. The old ghost sort of shrugged his ghost shoulders and looked really sad. The Little Prince was tucked under his arm but they took it away from him and placed it on the stack of books to be put back in their proper places. Then they pointed to the door. He looked over at me hiding in the corner and then walked out of the building, drifting through the glass as if there wasn’t any. I ran out after him. We walked next to each other, the both of us feeling down. Why wouldn’t they let him stay? After a while I had to go home, so I said goodbye. The old ghost smiled at me and I knew that I probably would never see him again. He turned down the street and slowly faded into nothing until he was gone. I knew it was late but I stood and watched him go. Once he disappeared I started to feel a little better about things, but I can’t help but think that he needed the library to live, that without it, he had nowhere to go. They kicked him out without even thinking about it. It’s not that the people at the library are bad people or anything. Maybe they just follow the rules too much. Would it have been so much trouble to let an old ghost roam around on the fifth floor after hours, picking up the books and skimming through them? Maybe it would be too much work. Maybe it would mean they would need to hire more people to clean up the mess or to stay to watch over the building while he was there. But so what? But wouldn’t it be worth it?